Escape and Evasion

by Christopher Wakling

  Joseph isn’t actually out of the den yet: he could still drop the lid.

  No.

  He’s climbing out and pushing through the foliage and Lancaster is turning towards him. Look at the muscles in those forearms, the bulk of the man’s T-shirted shoulders as he shifts his weight. It’s been a while since Joseph has seen him in anything but a suit. That bull-thick neck, the fuzz of red stubble running up to his freshly shaven head, the terrible competence with which he’s still stirring that pan. It all distracts Joseph from Lancaster’s expression – eyes narrowed, mouth hanging open a little – what’s the word for it? Concerned.

  Lancaster drops his spatula.

  The speed with which he rises makes Joseph do a whole-body flinch.

  Joseph still has the spear in one hand: he kneel-slumps behind it, wobbly point raised, but Lancaster simply swats it aside on his way to raise Joseph gently by the elbows.

  ‘My God; what have you done to yourself?’

  101

  There being no answer to that, Joseph tries to assert himself camp-wise, saying: ‘You should turn off your stove,’ because the smoke indicates that he should.

  ‘Come here. Jesus. Slowly does it.’

  ‘The eggs are burning.’

  Lancaster guides Joseph to sit on a log he’s pulled up, one arm around his shoulders, kind as a nurse. With the other hand he shuts off the gas flame.

  ‘Never mind eggs and bacon; I should have brought a fucking stretcher,’ he mutters.

  Joseph finds this insulting. He can’t look that bad. It’s all very well for Lancaster to show up muscle-bound, smelling so … clean, and with a shiny stove, but he, Joseph, has put up with a great deal since they were last together. He’s made do. He’s kept going. He’s endured.

  So what if that came at a cost, appearance-wise?

  ‘That’s right. Sit there. Let’s get a brew in you.’

  Lancaster ducks off to pull a huge thermos from his waterproof-looking duffel, his every movement quick and precise and efficient, exactly like a man who knows exactly what he’s doing, showing off by doing exactly that. His back is turned only for a moment, but it makes Joseph think: the game is not up, not yet, not quite, because it might still be possible to get away from Lancaster, mightn’t it, were he to be distracted, or even incapacitated?

  By whom?

  Joseph!

  Yeah right, plus whose army?

  He’s not about to try to run now, but he’ll keep an eye out for an opportunity. In the meantime, Lancaster clearly thinks Joseph is at death’s door, and that could be useful: Joseph decides not to disabuse him of that. Instead: listen to the sound of that tea sloshing out of the thermos! Typical Lancastrian foresight: it already has milk in it. Joseph’s hand is doing some comedy shaking as he reaches out for the big mug. He slops a bit en route to his first sip.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I can’t quite believe this,’ says Lancaster.

  Joseph steadies himself. ‘What?’

  ‘Finding you here, like this.’

  ‘How did you?’

  ‘When your brother said you’d gone off camping we thought you’d pick somewhere nice. The Lakes, possibly, or the south of France. To begin with we imagined you’d just decided on taking some time out, that you’d be back to face the music in a week or two. Not this! At the very least I expected a tent.’

  ‘A tent?’

  ‘Bit selfish of you just to piss off without saying anything, then slope about the place like a burglar.’

  ‘Burglar?’

  ‘Everyone’s been worried sick!’

  Joseph is about to take another sip of tea when it occurs to him that Lancaster hasn’t drunk any himself yet. What if the tea is drugged? How bloody stupid of him to go first. He’s so cross with himself that his hand is shaking again, slopping more of the lovely tea. He should fling it all away. But just as he’s getting ready Lancaster does two things, namely he puts a steadying hand on Joseph’s wrist and takes a workmanlike gulp of his own tea.

  Huh, outflanked again.

  ‘Yes, but how did you find me?’ Joseph asks.

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Your dog did.’

  ‘Gordon?’

  ‘Yeah. We tried with him after Lara spotted your boots, but it didn’t work the first time. Cold trail, possibly, or it could have been that she’d cleaned them up for you. Have to admit I was sceptical, but Naomi insisted we try again after yesterday and he got the idea, though I thought he might have woken you with that barking. Anyway, Naomi took him home, leaving me to cook up this surprise.’

  ‘Did Naomi buy the bacon?’

  ‘No, it was my idea. Would you like some?’

  Joseph shrugs. Like doesn’t quite cut it: Joseph wants a slice of bacon so ferociously badly he could weep. Of course he can’t give Lancaster the pleasure of knowing that, but sadly, his traitorous tongue betrays him: ‘If you’ve got some spare,’ it says.

  ‘Sure.’

  Lancaster busies himself splitting the contents of both pans – beans, eggs, mushrooms, and bacon – onto two metal plates. He’s pretty much whistling to himself.

  Damn Gordon.

  ‘There you go.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Joseph looks down on the plate of food. The mushrooms, glistening with butter, sit on the left, next to a rich red island of baked beans. In the middle of the plate the scrambled eggs are pepper-flecked. And there, lying nonchalantly on top of them are three – no, four – rashers of crispy bacon.

  He does not know where to begin.

  102

  ‘Take it slowly.’

  One of the few films he took both kids to see at the cinema was Fantastic Mr Fox: sod Lancaster’s instructions; Joseph has an urge to rip into the plate, starved-beast-style.

  But he doesn’t: it’s a dignity thing, plus he needs all the time he can get.

  Instead, he eats slowly, savouring every mouthful, even putting his fork (not spork) down now and then, casting around mind-wise for what?

  An advantage?

  Does he have one?

  Only this: he knows these woods better than Lancaster does. If he can put some distance between the two of them, just enough to be out of sight – and he could do that within a hundred yards in any direction – he might be able to work himself further away, as in ‘get away’ entirely.

  Ha.

  Shoeless, penniless, husklike.

  Yes well, this breakfast will help the old energy levels.

  Lancaster has cleaned his plate and is leaning back. Look at those triceps. He’s watching Joseph patiently. Is that in fact a kindly look in his eye?

  ‘You knew the score, Joe,’ he says at length. ‘It’s hardly like you’re the first person it’s happened to.’

  ‘What score’s that exactly?’

  ‘You were lucky to survive the first bad year. Christ, it was you who explained the old “two in a row, the old heave-ho” thing to me! Why take it so personally?’

  ‘This was a great breakfast. I owe you one.’

  ‘You could say that.’

  103

  High up in the canopy a bird coos. It’s a wood pigeon. Joseph has seen a few around. He looks up to see if he can spot any smudges of purply grey among the tangled greenness, but he can’t. What does Lancaster mean by ‘you could say that?’ The cryptic bastard.

  ‘Pretty stupid stunt to pull on your way out the door.’

  ‘Stupid?’

  ‘As in unrealistic, desperate. Some sort of cry for help, I assumed. But what were you trying to say?’

  ‘I wasn’t saying anything. I was redressing a balance.’

  ‘Yeah, but …’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘You didn’t seriously think you’d get away with it, did you?’

  Noticing that his fingers are black with dirt, Joseph folds them into his lap. Beyond the spine, he thinks: that’s the best direction making-a-run-for-it-wise. If he can get int
o the super thick rhododendron bank on the other side, there’s a sort of tunnel he can work his way along, down towards the rabbit fields.

  Lancaster goes on. ‘I mean, the minute you started copying sensitive information beyond the bank’s four walls – to a fucking liability in Leighton Buzzard! – a million red flags went up. Never mind my team, the gimps downstairs spotted it straight away. You wouldn’t believe how hard I’ve had to spin this thing to make it look like a practical joke gone wrong.’

  ‘He lives in Milton Keynes. And it’s not a joke.’

  ‘I can see that, believe me! The biggest clue? Pissing away your own money, or what was left of it, too. I tried, believe me, but beyond the bit your little friend wanted to keep for himself … well, the rest we couldn’t undo. I reckon you’ve lost yourself two hundred and forty K.’

  A fleck of bacon that had worked its way between two of Joseph’s back teeth now comes loose. Damn, even that is tasty. And yes, it’s a sign: it says that despite the horrible bereavement Lancaster is reporting, sounding as it does the death knell to Joseph’s grand scheme, a little of the money – his money! – did get through. That, at least, is something. Something, and yet, in the $1.34 billion scheme of things, nothing. He swallows the bacon shard and – how embarrassing – finds himself fighting back tears.

  ‘Christ, no need to look so glum about it. I’m telling you you’re in the clear, more or less. Ben to the rescue. Obviously, you can kiss goodbye to your golden handshake, but they’ve bought my system-testing-moment-of-insanity bullshit. Smile, man. You’re welcome.’

  104

  Even Lancaster’s voice has grown more muscular, rich, convincing over the years; possibly because it’s now powered by that deeper chest? Maybe he’s been training his vocal cords? Is there a gym-based way of doing that? Whatever. It could just be put on. Yes, the confidence could all be an act designed to make Joseph go along quietly, so that Lancaster can turn him in. The bacon and so forth: it all seems very thoughtful, but possibly it’s a smokescreen.

  Eat this, have a cup of tea, you’re in the clear! Now come with me …

  Which, if a true lie, would in fact be good, because then there’d still be hope that he’d pulled it off, ‘it’ being sticking a hole in Airdeen Clore’s money-coated side.

  ‘Insanity,’ Joseph says.

  ‘Stress-related, momentary, a blip. I had a root around to try and find something to peg it on, but apart from the run-of-the-mill end-of-job, end-of-marriage, downsizing-shaped pressures I couldn’t really find much.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘In fact, the opposite. It seemed you’d kicked the booze? Good effort there.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I thought about going with a catastrophic-falling-off-the-wagon theory, but really there was no evidence for that. The footage all showed you walking out of the building in a good straight line. And anyway, even when you were on the sauce, you seemed to manage to hold it together well enough at work. But maybe I was wrong about that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And of course there was the whole medical testing thing, but I’d have thought that would come as a huge relief after all these years with your head in the sand.’

  Joseph feels a sudden and incredible stillness descend: the leaves in the treetops above him stop their flickering, there’s not a breath of wind at bomb-hole level, the birds have fallen silent. He’s a statue: more Mickey Mouse on the Disneyland ramparts than Churchill in Parliament Square, but still, it seems even the blood in his veins has come to a gentle halt.

  How deep will Lancaster stoop?

  Look at him there. What’s he doing now? Digging something else out of his bag. It’s a huge bar of chocolate. He’s pinching the purple wrapper, tearing it open, pulling it off. Fruit & Nut. How assertively he’s snapping the slab into two halves and holding one out. Even the gingery hairs on the back of his hand look vigorous, healthy, full of intent.

  ‘Go on, Joe. You need feeding up.’

  Everything inside says: no thanks, I’m all right for now, but Joseph’s hand seems to be taking the chocolate and lifting it straight to his mouth. Give me that, it says. When he bites down his right canine feels wobbly, unsure of its toehold gum-wise, so Joseph impatiently snaps off a chunk with his fingers, puts it straight in his mouth and lets it sit there on his tongue, the taste rising like yeast left overnight, bread in an oven, whatever.

  It’s nice.

  Too nice!

  Unbearable, in fact. Whichever bit of him is tasked with processing taste is knotted in borderline pain right now.

  Joseph’s tongue quick-shifts the chocolate to his back teeth.

  They destroy it quickly.

  He does a small grunt to mark the fact.

  Take that.

  Down it goes.

  He finds he’s grimacing.

  ‘Medical all-clear aside, we need to get you checked out by a doctor, mate. You’re in a bit of a state.’

  It’s an insult: Lancaster clearly thinks he can lure him, Joseph, Big Beast, from his lair, with half a bar of chocolate, a cup of tea, and a lie-up.

  Fry-up.

  No! He’s actually serving up lies! ‘Medical all-clear’ being the most pernicious.

  ‘The kids are desperate to see you, but you’ll want to sort yourself out first. The whole caveman thing might scare them.’

  His kids?

  The bastard is going for a new, lower low.

  ‘But I tell you what, before we head out, I’d love a look at your little shelter.’

  105

  Lancaster levers himself upright in a boastful-triceps way and bounces on the balls of his feet, as if poised to work a piece of gym equipment. The laces in his Gore-Tex trail boot-shoes are very turquoise. Feeling somewhat loomed over, Joseph stands himself up, an Anglepoise lamp with weak springs, though he does his best to pull his shoulders back when upright.

  Lancaster sidesteps his way through the undergrowth, pulling aside the brambles. ‘Pretty good job you did here, Joe. Takes me back. Was there a reliving-your-youth element to all of this? Once was enough for me; I tell you that much!’

  Joseph follows him. Look at the way Lancaster is yanking his camouflage left and right, stamping that fern down and kicking away the hawthorn offcut he so carefully placed to the right of the den entrance. Impotent twat.

  Ha. Not that: impudent.

  Funny how quickly the right word always arrives after the wrong one, isn’t it? Funny-heartening. The word holes aren’t so much emptinesses as puzzle gaps awaiting the right piece. He still has them all in the box.

  What’s this? Lancaster is complimenting Joseph on his concealment strategy, even as he ruins it. ‘Without your dog,’ he’s saying, ‘I really don’t think I’d have found this. Mind if I have a look inside?’

  ‘Help yourself.’

  The gall of the man, squatting there to lift up the trap door, rocking forward on his bulging thighs, dipping his head down like a duck in a pond, all ‘what have we here then beneath the lily pads?’, et cetera. It’s not his ‘Christ, it smells a bit high in here,’ that stings, more the fact of Lancaster’s willingness to turn his back on Joseph, while on his knees! How fucking complacent is that? Without thinking the situation through, without hope, without a goddamn clue, Joseph nevertheless knows what he must do, and Lancaster’s muted whistle of appreciation is the signal for him to do it. He bustles forward, plants a bare foot on Lancaster’s raised arse, and shoves with all his might, so forcefully in fact that he falls over backwards himself even as Lancaster lurch-topples into-onto the den-hole-roof. It holds. Well built! That’s something. Out of the corner of his eye Joseph can see that – damnit – Lancaster has managed to save himself from falling right in, but still, he’s sort of lying twisted there, and his ‘What the—?’ betrays a hint of – yes! – panic.

  106

  Now, now, now.

  Run for the spine.

  He’s light, he’s spry, he’s flying: look at him go.

&n
bsp; Joseph makes it five, eight, thirteen, twenty-four crashing paces before …

  How on earth?

  Lancaster – striding, not running – has somehow cut him off, two big hands raised, arms wide, calling out rather than shouting: ‘Joe, stop, Joe, there’s no need for this, stop, Joe!’

  Quite sing-song, that voice.

  Infuriating!

  How about this, then?

  Joseph puts his head down and runs straight. Much like a noble beast, a bull, say, trapped in the ring! Who knows, he might be able to take down the matador with his last charge. Possibly stick him with a horn.

  Knife!

  Sadly it’s back there, in his bag, in the den.

  Two things happen at the same time: first, Joseph runs headlong into Lancaster; and second, exactly as he hits him, he realises he’s glad he’s not carrying six sharp inches of tempered steel.

  Lancaster isn’t on his knees, off balance, with his back to Joseph this time; he’s braced, arms out, leaning into the attack.

  He catches Joseph like he, Joseph, used to catch the children when small.

  Envelops him.

  Wraps him up whole.

  This can’t be all he, Joseph, has got, can it? Do some kicking. Possibly a headbutt. Why is nothing connecting? It’s like he’s flailing against bedclothes. The harder he struggles the more enmeshed he becomes.

  ‘Joe! It’s me! Simmer down! Joe!’

  Lancaster’s chest feels like something carved. Also, it smells like something familiar …

  Clinique For Men.

  ‘That’s right. Take it easy. I’ve got you.’

  Joseph growls. At least he can do that.

  ‘Come on, sit down, talk to me.’

  Another growl.

  ‘It’s going to be okay, mate. Trust me.’

  ‘Ha.’

  ‘That’s a start. “Ha”. You’ll laugh about this one day, I promise.’

  ‘Are you fucking her?’